


Aftermath

by dralexreid



Series: Dr Piper Bishop [43]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27225070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dralexreid/pseuds/dralexreid
Summary: Piper deals with the trauma from her recent episode, pushing the team away as she recovers. Meanwhile, the team goes to San Francisco to deal with an unsub.
Relationships: Dr Spencer Reid/Dr Piper Bishop
Series: Dr Piper Bishop [43]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1972852
Kudos: 19





	Aftermath

She woke up, enveloped in darkness as her hair curled around her shoulders. Her eyes blinked rapidly, searching for his face before crying out his name. She felt her world collapsing around her again as her breath quickened as though she was fighting to reach the surface. She felt Irene's hand closing tight like iron around her ankles, shrieking as she clawed her way up to her shoulder until Piper opened her eyes to Spencer's arms wrapped tightly around her. "I'm here," he said, stroking her hair softly as she sobbed into his shoulder.

That was two weeks ago, Spencer thought as he busied himself making a cup of coffee. Two weeks before the funeral. Two weeks he'd spent pacing aimlessly in his apartment hoping she'd call and tell him to come back. Two weeks Penelope had been knocking on her door and leaving little baskets of books and chocolate cookies. Two weeks JJ had visited, waiting outside her door to try and comfort her through brick walls. Two weeks Derek had sat between the baskets telling her bad jokes and trying to distract her with stories from work. Two weeks Rossi had tried to tempt her out with homemade Italian recipes and wine. Two weeks Hotch had slipped little notes of support under the door as well as messages from Jack. Every day one of the team took it upon themselves to convince Reid to coax her out but he wouldn't budge, claiming space was important, but he knew he was being selfish. It had been two weeks since Piper had told him to leave, her voice shaking, her words bitter as she told him that Irene was right, that she was weak, that she was sick. When he closed his eyes, he could hear her yell, her voice trembling, with the power to shatter windows and tear the world apart. "Something inside me is broken, Reid and no amount of love or pity or condolences are gonna fix it!"

He couldn't heal her wounds. No-one could. No-one from the Behavioural Analysis Unit could explain to her that the deepest wounds aren't the ones we get from other people hurting us. They are the wounds we give ourselves as we hurt ourselves thinking about what could have been.

Instead, she sat against the door, sinking into a sea of darkness that threatened to drown her, given birth only through her own tears. She listened to JJ and Penelope’s soft assurances as they washed over her like water over rock. She heard their receding footsteps before she pushed herself off the floor, weaving past the mess of poetry books on the floor. “And this is why I sojourn here,” she recited to herself softly. “Alone and palely loitering.” She moved over to her mantle, littered with small remnants of her past as she continued reciting. “Though the sedge is withered from the lake.” A single tear escaped the corner of her eye, sliding down her cheek as she gazed at the photo frame of them, impossibly young, her arms slung around the smartest people she knew. “And no birds sing.” She closed her eyes, hugging the picture to her chest, her eyes sore as she sobbed herself raw.

* * *

Derek settled his pen down, running his tongue over his lip before picking up his cell.

_Hi, it’s Piper. I’m sorry I couldn’t come to the phone but if you hop 3 times, spin around, touch your nose and say your name, then leave me a message after the beep, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible._

“I’ve already tried it, kid. It’s me, again.” Emily’s face popped through his door and he looked over.

“Hey, we’re gathering.” Derek nodded, pinning his cell between his shoulder and chin as he arranged his things.

“Listen, angel. Give me a call when you can,” he said smoothly before hanging up, sighing as he dropped it into his pocket.

“Was that her?” Emily’s tone was hopeful but in her heart, she knew this wound would be slow to heal from.

“Voicemail.” She sighed as Derek joined her outside his office, placing her hands on the hem of her turtleneck.

“It’s been two weeks.” Derek shrugged before noticing Emily’s stiffness.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” She nodded firmly before shaking her head, resigned at being unable to lie to a profiler. “No.” She sighed before moving to walk beside him to the conference room. “Sometimes I wonder if I hadn’t pushed Spencer so hard to meet her—”

“Hey, you can’t blame yourself for encouraging him.” Derek’s eyes left hers, gaze to the floor.

“I know, I know. It was bound to happen no matter what.”

“Yeah, well.” Derek sighed at the entrance to the conference room. “I still miss her,” he said softly, making his way inside as Spencer caught sight of them and Hotch and Rossi making their way over.

“Did she tell you how long?”

“I told her to take as much time as she needs.” Rossi nodded slowly.

“She watched a close friend die in front of her,” he admitted slowly. “I can’t imagine—” David caught Aaron’s gaze. “Yeah,” he said, stopping himself before he entered the room to take his seat, the one between Spencer’s and Emily's visibly empty and though that wasn’t very new to the team, the sight ached at them, echoing emptiness inside them as well. Penelope pushed past it as she gave the briefing.

Gary Porter was found dead outside a San Francisco night club the night before. Pamela Heard was found near a cable car stop in San Francisco’s Mission District. They were both found wrapped in clear plastic, dead only a few hours before they were found completely drained of blood, exsanguinated while they were still alive. Derek theorised that it might have been utilitarian while Dave went on the opposite track, suggesting borderline sadism. Spencer interrupted; his voice steady over the table.

“Draining a body like that is extremely hard to do. Once the heart stops pumping, it’s almost impossible to keep the blood flowing.” Using that as her cue, Penelope pointed out the boreholes in the femoral arteries of each victim and Hotch finished the briefing solemnly.

“Wheels up in 30.”

They discussed victimology on the jet, as usual, confirming that there was almost no regular pattern other than the M.O. JJ pointed out that socioeconomic, gender and race boundaries had been crossed, one a wealthy hedge fund manager, the other a student who worked multiple job just to get by. Hotch wondered aloud whether it was psychological torture with the amount of time exsanguination takes. Derek uncomfortably followed on, suggesting it was a fetish for blood or bloodletting. Now was the time, Emily noted, where Piper would chip in with historical and literary references about the theory of four temperaments by Hippocrates or about the use of leeches as a form of anger management therapy in ancient Greece, but instead they continued like they’d done all year as Rossi suggested they might have drunk the blood. “Fritz Haarmann, the vampire of Hanover,” Spencer recalled, “killed many of his victims by biting through their throats. This unsub used some sort of tubing device to drain the blood from the femoral arteries. There aren’t any traces of saliva on the wound.” That’s when Penelope popped in on the screen, having clearly re-applied her makeup, JJ noted, to alert them that another body had been found wrapped in plastic on a park bench, drained of blood.

* * *

Piper pulled her cardigan sleeves down to her fingertips. They didn’t ache anymore but the remnants of metal between skin glinted underneath her nails. She kept all her scars, the branded logo of her past, the gash on both legs, the bruising on her cheekbones. As she grasped her warm cup of tea, she glided over to the couch, tucking her feet in behind her, her eyes aching from the small snatches of sleep she’d been getting. Not even mugs full of tea could lull her into sleep, could burn away the fear cradled in her chest as Arthur was replaced by Daniel, then Lucy, then Derek, then Dave, then Penelope, then JJ, then Hotch, then Jack, then Emily and then Spencer and despite her shrieks, the nightmares would not stop. Perhaps Irene Simmons was dead but, in her mind, Piper still felt the iron wrapped around her wrist, the taste of metal in her mouth, wailing at the sight of pale kings and princes and the beautiful maiden without mercy. Piper sighed, her voice softly carrying through the apartment as she recited a strange old poem that she memorised years ago. “Lightly, lightly, ever brightly, moves the banshee, certain death.” She swayed her head slowly as she spoke, as though the words caught her in a trance. “Cry and call out, Death will fall out, hold – You cannot hold – your breath.” Her voice grew as she fell into a steady rhythm. “Brilliant yellow, is this fellow, is the banshee, plumed and bright. Lovers hearing listen, fearing. Hark! Who treads the plushy night?”

A memory erupted inside her as she drank her tea of when the nightmares first started. At first, Spencer’s presence had been a warm, welcome safe haven. Always there, always understanding. And somehow, in the midst of hating herself, she’d started to hate him too. Words that used to be full of care and love warped into bitterness. She yelled at him for not understanding when all he’d done was try and coax her to sleep. He’d been nothing but kind and patient and here, alone, she sank into her guilt. Arthur’s death had consumed her. “He’s dead, and I killed him,” she’d said, her voice soft but cold. “I might not have wielded the blade, but I might as well have. I promised I’d take care of him, I promised, and I broke that promise and now he’s dead, and that’s on me.” Just as Spencer had believed she’d been getting better, she was getting worse as Arthur’s body switched with her family and every night she lay awake, aware of her boyfriend’s head tucked into the crook of her neck and his slow, soft breaths on her collarbone, as her eyes begged her to sleep. But instead, she’d stared at the ceiling, praying not to see ‘the thousand sordid images of which [her] soul was constituted’. Perhaps Eliot was right after all; perhaps life is just meaningless routines as Piper turned into a shade; a ghost of her previous life.

* * *

Derek walked slowly; one ear latched to his phone as Emily updated him on the case. Their sadism angle was right, but the victims may have just been of opportunity with the different blood types. There wasn’t any correlation between victims and Spencer trudged along by his side, hand shoved in pockets. He slipped the phone into his pocket and pulled at Reid’s arm before the entered the medical examiner’s office. “Kid, listen, has uh…has Bishop talked to you?” He watched as his friend’s face fell.

“She kicked me out.” He pursed his lips and nodded rapidly, pulling up his façade and Derek almost reeled back in surprise. Pushing them away, he understood at some level. But Spencer? “She just needs space. About 2.5 million people die in the United States annually, each leaving an average of five grieving people behind,” he murmured. “But when grief is overwhelming and powerful, it can seem to have no end and complicated grief affects between 10% to 20% of grievers.”

“So, she’s gonna be okay?” Spencer met Derek’s eyes. He remembered the fight they’d had as she picked up fallen books, throwing them into piles haphazardly. 

_“I’m fine.”_

_“You say that a lot for someone who wakes up screaming,” Spencer sighed._

_“That was one time,”_ _she huffed._

_“And it’s also the only time I’ve ever seen you sleep, it’s nightmares every time, isn’t it?”_

_“A lot of people have nightmares, Spence.” Piper stopped cleaning, turning around to face him._

_“Not like that.”_ He kept his voice fragile, soft, not wanting to break her any more than she already felt.

_“I’m not going to bed just so I can spend hours staring at the ceiling. So, just go and sleep and leave for work.”_

_“Pipes, you need—” That’s when her voice raised, cracking slightly as syllables punched him._

_“What I need is peace and quiet. I don’t need someone treating me like I’m going to break. I don’t need someone to tell me statistics about grief and how it’s okay to feel how I feel. I don’t need someone watching over me constantly as though I’m going to crumple and die.” But what he really heard was ‘I don’t need you.’_

_“Is it so wrong for me to want to save you?”_

_“Yes,” she shrieked, a rage burning in her eyes. ““He’s dead, and I killed him. I might not have wielded the blade, but I might as well have. I promised I’d take care of him, I promised, and I broke that promise and now he’s dead, and that’s on me.” Spencer took a half-step forward as she stumbled until she steadied herself. “I’m sorry, I - I can’t.” He felt her hopelessness emanating from her in waves, her guilt roiling inside of her as she collapsed into an armchair, her voice softer than a crashing wave hitting the sand. “I just can’t. I close my eyes, and I see him, watching me, judging me for what I did. I hear the screams. I can’t sleep to save my life. I don’t deserve it, anyway.”_

“I don’t know, Morgan. But we’ve got a job to do.”

* * *

Rossi shook hands with Detective Lenny Wilkes, ducking under the yellow tape to observe the body, Prentiss following close behind. “His behaviour’s changed again.” Emily looked to him, then the wrapped body.

“Her eyelids are missing,” she noted, and Rossi sighed, rubbing his face. “Sadism’s increasing.” She pointed to the blood, bright red against pale skin. “He did this antemortem.”

“His torture is definitely more than psychological at this point,” Rossi said, his mouth curved in annoyance.

“Mmm,” She hummed, moving closer to the victim. “Why the eyelids?”

“I dunno,” Rossi murmured as Emily reached into her pocket for her phone.

“Yeah, Garcia, what you got?”

 _“I'm worried about Bishop.”_ Garcia’s voice was tense, her fears and apprehension open in her words

“I am, too.”

_“What do you think she's doing?”_

“I think she's taking the time that Hotch gave her.”

_“I get it. She's sad. She should be sad. But I'm so worried. And when someone I love is hurting, it's like I hurt, too, which I know is super co-dependent, but it's just how I roll, and I feel like I should be doing something, and I don't know what it is, but—”_

“All right, slow down, Garcia? Just slow down.”

_“Could you call her?”_

“I have. She's just not ready to talk to anybody right now.”

_“I need to hear her voice. It's impairing my ability to work.”_

“Let me try something, all right?”

 _“Thanks_.”

“Our tech genius has something?” Rossi looked back at Emily who was starting to dial a familiar number.

“Yeah, severe tension.” She scoffed as her phone hit voicemail.

_Hi, it’s Piper. I’m sorry I couldn’t come to the phone but if you hop 3 times, spin around, touch your nose and say your name, then leave me a message after the beep, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible._

“Hey, Bishop. I’ve got a work question for you. Unsub, wraps victim in plastic, crosses socioeconomic, gender and race lines, exsanguinates and removes eyelids antemortem. Does that mean anything to you? Get back to me.” She didn’t have time to put the phone back in his pocket before it rang. She let out a slow chuckle before picking up. “Hey, Bishop. You’ve got me and Rossi here.”

 _“Okay.”_ Her voice sounded hollow, drained as she asked more questions. _“Where were they dumped?”_

“One outside a night club, the other in the Mission District. This last one is in a park.”

 _“I’m gonna need you to be specific.”_ Emily raised her eyebrows at her abrasive tone and Rossi seemed to flinch before complying. The phone was silent for a moment. “ _Your last victim, that park she’s in, it’s dedicated to Saint Luke. He’s the patron saint of the arts and San Francisco loves their art. As for your third victim, there should be a mural of some sort there and I haven’t been around the night club scene a lot but seeing as your second victim was found near a Cypher artwork, there’s probably something there too. Your unsub’s dedicated to art but he’s turning to murder because…”_ Silence _. “He feels rejected, unwanted. There’s a very high standard for art in that city.”_

“Wait, how do you know he feels rejected?” Rossi piped up, curious.

“ _The park you’re standing in? The local council’s been trying to renovate it, Cypher’s wanted by the police and no-one likes youth paintings. Was there anything else?”_

 _“_ Yeah, one last thing. Eyelid removal mean anything to you?” Clearly, Emily spoke too soon as Rossi winced. Piper fell silent on the other end.

“ _If it was done antemortem, then he wanted his victims to watch.”_ Rossi took Piper off the speaker, moving away from the crime scene.

“Listen, kid, how are you feeling?”

_“Rossi, if that’s all, I’ve got some work to get—”_

“Cut the crap, kid. Look, we know you’re hurting, but you gotta talk to us, kid.”

 _“I gotta go, Rossi.”_ The line cut and Dave sighed.

“So stubborn.”

* * *

Prentiss stood next to Reid as the team delivered the profile which had been easy enough to connect once they’d connected the crime scenes. Done with her part, she managed to slip away from the others, dialling Dr Piper Bishop’s number, hitting her voicemail. It was funny how much a person could change; how different someone’s voice can become after a tragedy hits their soul so deeply.

_Hi, it’s Piper. I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you hop 3 times, spin around, say your name and leave a message after the beep, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible._

“Hi, Pipes. This is Emily. Your theory helped. A lot, actually. I could tell you that everyone really misses you, but you probably already knew that because you’re sitting in your warmest clothes, drinking tea and listening to me right now. I could tell you that things get better but if you believed that, you’d be back by now. I could also tell you that how you’re feeling is absolutely natural, except it’s not. You watched someone die. Someone you care about. And I know that because I was there with you. I heard your helplessness and your heartbreak. I heard your pain and your anguish, Pipes, and I know how useless you feel. Grief isn’t something you can fix, and it certainly doesn’t go away. You have to honour it, carry it. My time’s almost up so I’ll leave you with this. You may shoot me with your words, you may cut me with your eyes, you may kill me with your hatefulness, but still, like air, I’ll rise.” The line cut her off and Emily made to slip the phone into her pocket when it rang. Before she could say a word, a small voice breathed out.

 _“Who wrote that? That verse?”_ Emily smiled to herself.

“Maya Angelou.” Piper’s response was barely audible, but Emily caught on.

 _“Thank you,”_ she whispered before the line cut.

* * *

Piper paced her apartment, her mind whirring at a million miles a second. Maybe she wasn’t ready for this, she thought as the doorbell rang. She glided over, pushing the sleeves of her cardigan up as she opened the door. Anderson’s face was knotted as he handed over the files silently. She murmured a thank you, accepting a quick hug from him before he left. She almost closed the door until her eyes fell to the multiple baskets, mustering a quick smile. Balancing the file in her hand, she managed to lug the baskets inside, turning back into her dark apartment. She grumbled at being unable to read the files. She tossed them to the table next to her, reaching for the blinds. She winced as the sunlight beamed through her windows and turned back to the file, grabbing the nearest notepad and pen. Pulling out her phone, she dialled the last number she got. “Emily, I may have something for you.”

_“Hey, Bishop! What’s up?”_

“If the disposal sites are scattered around the Mission District area then he probably lives or works near there. More important though is his obsession with art, specifically abstract art. Now, one of the biggest problems with a lot of famous artists today is that they’re not from today. Art, like a lot of literature, isn’t appreciated until the artist is deceased. Van Gogh only sold two paintings in his lifetime as well as other drawings, so it’s like no wonder he cut off his ear. He was miser—”

_“I’m sorry, are you going somewhere with this?”_

“Yes, and my point is our unsub is unappreciated just like the artworks you found our victims in.”

_“Hold on, I’m gonna patch in Garcia.”_

Prentiss dialled Garcia, linking the two calls together before silently calling the team over.

_“Hey, how’s my pumpkin?”_

_“I refuse to respond to that nickname.”_ Emily made to cover her ears at Penelope’s squeal.

_“Ho—How are you?”_

_“‘M getting there. Thanks for the baskets. And books. Did you know that Percy Shelley blew up a tree with gunpowder when he was at Eton?”_

_“I didn’t,”_ Penelope said, her voice on the verge of tears.

_“Listen, I need a list of every art gallery in San Francisco.”_

_“Really? I thought you had that stuff memorised.”_ The team heard a dry chuckle from Piper’s end, the first sound of her voice they’d heard in weeks. _“Woah.”_

_“Yeah, San Francisco loves its art. Narrow it down to the Mission District and send a list of employees my way.”_

_“Got it. But why—"_ The line clicked.

“It’s better than nothing, baby girl,” Derek started.

“ _It is. I will take it. Sending the addresses and names to your mobile.”_ The team split up to tackle each gallery while Piper narrowed down the list of employees. Sighing at the sheer amount of paperwork, Piper peeled off her cardigan as she kept working through the list while JJ and Hotch found Pamela Heard’s portrait in an underground gallery before running it for DNA. The team regrouped in the precinct, running through their behavioural profile. The detective came over passing a file to Hotch whose eyebrows crossed as he read through it.

“They only found red blood cells. He removed the white blood cells. Plasma. Why would he take the plasma?”

“It would make it thicker. Easier to use as paint,” Rossi thought aloud, looking to Derek who sat between JJ and Emily.

“What type of equipment would it take to do that?”

“You can easily buy a centrifuge online these days for a couple of hundred bucks,” Reid answered.

“What other reasons would he have for separating the plasma from the blood?” Rossi asked, trying to broaden their perspective.

“It'd be a habit if he’s a haemophiliac,” Spencer suggested.

“That would explain his obsession with blood,” Emily nodded as she spoke. "He can't bleed without a fear of dying.”

“It's also why he would separate the plasma from the blood before painting with it. It's an antiquated treatment, but some haemophiliacs can inject plasma into their wounds, kick-starting the clotting process that's ineffective in their own systems.”

Derek nodded, pulling out his phone to call Garcia.

_“Talk about it.”_

“Hey, girlie, I need a list of haemophiliacs in San Francisco.”

_“Vague. So vague. Okay.”_

“Garcia,” Spencer interrupted. “For his obsession to be this profound, he most likely has the more severe version of the disease. It's type B Christmas disease.”

_“Okay, Christmas disease. It does not sound very jolly.”_

“It was named after the first known case, Stephen Christmas.”

_“All right, I got 15 people who have trouble clotting. Got anything else for me?”_

“You’re looking for Bryan Hughes,” a voice murmured, and they turned to see Piper standing, dark circles underlining her eyes and she shoved her hands into the pockets of her soft grey blazer atop a light grey jumper, a brooch of autumn leaves adorning her breast. “He’s a haemophiliac, works as a janitor at the Bay Area Museum of Art.” Piper visibly stiffened as JJ moved to hug her before sinking into her warmth.

“Bishop,” Hotch breathed, noticing his gifted brooch on her jumper and taking it as a sign. “I didn't expect you back this soon. You sure you're ready?”

“No, and I’m not back. At least, not yet, but I think I figured something out.” She moved to take her spot in the circle between Derek and Spencer. “His placement of each- of each body next to a work of art that isn’t appreciated reflects an inner need to be recognised and he hasn’t been. He surrounds himself with exemplary art and the Bay Area is where you’ll find the best of the best. The best food, the best wine and the best art.”

JJ followed along. “So, he surrounds himself by what he wants to be?”

“You ever hear the phrase ‘you are what you eat’?”

“ _Wait, he eats them?”_ Spencer saw a rare smile break her face. “ _I know you’re smiling, don’t even hide it.”_

“Yeah, well one aspect of psychotherapy is consuming positive art, it can help people explore emotions, develop self-awareness, cope with stress, boost self-esteem, and work on social skills. For Bryan, consuming art that is publicly accepted is how he develops as an artist. Anyway, I called the art director for the Bay Area Museum and she said—”

“Hold on, you just _called_ her?” Rossi stared at Piper who nodded without explaining anything.

“Madison said Bryan had been coming in for weeks trying to sell her paintings of people using blood as a medium.”

“Did she buy any of them?” Hotch prompted her but Piper shook her head.

“She kept giving him encouragement.”

_“Sending you both addresses now.”_

“Dave, you and Emily take the museum, the rest of us will take the residence.” Piper’s mouth drew into a line as the others moved into action. Rossi patted her softly and Emily moved near her to grab her bag.

“Em,” she called softly, and the other woman met her gaze warmly. “Um, I’d take Folsom Street, it’ll get you there in 8 minutes and furthest from traffic.” Emily held her shoulder.

“You’ll get there, Piper. Trust yourself.” Piper nodded slowly before watching her and Rossi leave as Hotch made his way over.

“How are you?” Piper sighed, mulling the question over.

“The better days of life were ours; The worst can be but mine: The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, Shall never more be thine,” she recited to him and he nodded.

“You don’t have to be here if you’re not ready.” She nodded, biting a lip.

“How do I know when I’m ready, Hotch? It just- It feels like there’s this long hallway and you’re all on the other end and no matter how fast I run, what if I never get there?” She met his eyes, warm and fatherly despite the neutral expression on his face.

“We’re all right here.” Piper nodded and he clasped her shoulder before walking away, listening to something Spencer murmured. Hotch nodded to him before making his way out with JJ and Derek while Spencer approached her.

“Hey,” she murmured.

“Hi.”

“You- uh…You’ll be safe right?”

“When am I not?” Spencer pouted, relief coursing through him as she managed a small smile.

“Should I not remind you of your knee injury? What about that Anthrax scare? Or maybe—" She felt his hand slide near her ear as he captured her lips softly. She gingerly placed her hands on his waist as he pulled away.

“Sorry,” he muttered, scrunching his eyes. “I know, you need time and I didn’t mean to push too fast.” Piper laughed. An open, musical laugh and when he opened his eyes, he saw his Piper. Her hands were warm against his waist. And then she was gone, swallowing that last remnant of joy as though she didn’t deserve it.

“I’m sorry, Spence. I just—” she sighed deeply. “I want to get better. And I’m trying but—”

“You’ll get there. It’s just gonna take some time.”

“But what if this is what I deserve?” Her voice was nothing more than a whisper and she trained her eyes on a button of Spencer’s cardigan. The silence was palpable, and she mustered the courage to look up. Spencer’s eyes were steel, glinting in the pale lights of the precinct. She bit her lip as she watched him glance around them before feeling his hand wrap softly around her waist, guiding her outside. They stood in the warm sunlight, the precinct emptying out as officers headed for lunch. Despite the tension tight between them, she couldn’t help but notice his tousled hair gleaming auburn in the light.

“Piper, ask me.” She could laugh from incredulity as he demanded her. “Ask me,” he prodded. Suppressing a smile, she obliged.

“What’s my diagnosis Doc?”

“You’ve got a severe case of survivor’s guilt,” he said gently, as though he was reminding her.

“That’s not—”

“An official diagnosis, I know,” he surrendered. “But it’s a form of PTSD, Piper, the core symptoms are the same. Avoidance, hypervigilance, isolationist behaviour, you know this.” Piper closed her eyes as Spencer pressed a kiss to her forehead, wrapping her arms around his waist. “You’re not to blame.”

“But if I’d—”

“There was nothing you could do. You need to process this, love.” She lay her head against his chest, his chin resting softly on her forehead. “I’m right here.”

“In San Francisco,” she chuckled weakly, looking up at his beaming smile.

“All the more incentive to recover?” She smiled ruefully. “Well, the way I see it, we still have the better half of a day to hang out. I say we go back to my hotel room and watch QI.” Piper scowled at him. “What?”

“You’re in San Francisco, Spence. The home of fine arts and culture. _You_ want to stay inside and watch British comedy?” Spencer grinned sheepishly. “Come on. There’s something, I know there’s something you looked up.” He looked at the tiles, scuffing his shoes. “I’m not afraid to just list things.” Spencer’s hand migrated to the back of his neck, rubbing it softly. “The Wave Organ.” He shook his head. “It’s not a staircase is it?” He barked out a laugh. Piper raised her eyebrows at him. “Well?” He mumbled something. Piper just crossed her arms, waiting for him. Spencer tapped a foot, sighed and spit it out.

“The Palace of Fine Arts.” She beamed before wrinkling her forehead at Spencer’s downcast expression.

“That’s only like a 15-20-minute drive Spence, what’s up?”

“Nothing, you’ve probably been there a dozen times anyway and I don’t want—” Piper smuggled her fingertips into his hands, clasping his knuckles as she smiled softly at him. “I don’t want to bore you.” Piper laughed.

“What on earth makes you think you’d ever bore me?” She pressed a quick kiss to his nose, a smile etched into her face. “You gonna drive, or should I?” She dangled her keys as she beamed.

“Your city, your choice.” As Spencer watched Piper grin in the sunlight, it seemed to him as though nothing had changed. As though she was still that history teacher from the South. Perhaps that was why he didn’t stop to look at the massive dome structure, rather focusing on the rare sight in front of him, Piper spouting facts that he clung on to, archiving the memory away of the two of them walking through the colonnaded path next to the water, grasping her hand as though releasing it would amount to losing her. He had once wondered how long it would take her to heal, to recover, but perhaps she wouldn’t, not completely. Perhaps this was enough.


End file.
